


West Star, Tallow Candle

by Aansero



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Blackmail, Boot Worship, Carriage Sex, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Hair-pulling, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Praise Kink, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aansero/pseuds/Aansero
Summary: Tethimar leant in, close enough Csevet could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘We shall give thee a choice,’ he said, low, and Csevet couldn’t tear his eyes from Tethimar’s. He could feel his shoulders tremble.





	West Star, Tallow Candle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



> We hope you enjoy reading this fic half as much as we enjoyed writing it <3 thank you for your truly inspiring prompts!
> 
> With a thousand thanks to [Island_of_Reil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil) as our beta reader <3

It was a holiday – the West Star Festival, one of Cstheio's festivals – and now that Edrehasivar was emperor it was far larger than Csevet could remember it ever being. The past few years it had barely been more than a few unapproved bonfires in Cetho's main square; now it was a national holiday.  
  
For weeks, now, Edrehasivar had been excited to celebrate – to see the dancers in their traditional dress, to hear the music, and also perhaps to bring a little bit of his goddess back into the minds if not hearts of his people. He had done meticulous research into both the old traditions and what would be expected – and wanted – in modern times, throwing himself into the project with particular enthusiasm. Csevet had spent countless hours at his side, at his candle-lit desk in his room late at night, and also chasing down the festival planners in order to make sure they were following both letter and spirit of Edrehasivar's wishes. The former two he'd enjoyed – the latter, not so much.

It was the evening of the celebration, and Edrehasivar had already left; his plans were dinner with a variety of nobility, hosted by the university, then watching the dancers and fireworks on the custom-built stage in Cetho's main square. Csevet was celebrating by getting drunk and trying not to think about the way Edrehasivar's eyes shone in his excitement. That, and in the same vein, spending the night with some rather more intimate, frivolous company than he'd thus had a chance to in his time as Edrehasivar’s secretary.  
  
In truth it was not the wisest decision he'd ever made, but some discreet questioning had revealed that a long lie-in would be very much expected for all who celebrated. Besides, none of the court’s upper workings would be running, and the parts that were running were those that had run for centuries on end and would survive without Csevet's personal attention for one day. He would have more than enough time to sober up, return, and fold himself back into the proper form of Imperial secretary. So he allowed himself this indulgence. He deserved it. He, quite frankly, needed it.  
  
Even so, a nagging feeling still lingered as he left the Untheileneise Court through the Northern Gate and made his way into Cetho on streets he hadn't been on in many months, but remembered as well as any other in the city. The streets changed from marble to stone to broken stone, and though he didn't go down the packed dirt paths this time, he knew well where they were and where they led.  
  
He'd changed his clothes from the uniform of a secretary of Edrehasivar's to common clothes, suitable for the festival: a plain shirt, grey-green for knowledge, and a summer jacket he'd had dyed navy to represent the night sky. His trousers were likewise coloured, and he wore his old boots and not the embroidered slippers that served him in the clean, smooth-paved marble-and-tile court. He did his hair in series of braids all tied together, then pinned at the base of his neck, a current fashion for his intended audience – though not so distinctive that he would raise eyebrows elsewhere. His everyday, court-approved sunwood tashin sticks he'd swapped out for some he'd kept from his courier days (painted dark blue with a black ribbon tied to the end of each – the codes had not changed, he had checked – and oh, it had been so long since he’d dug these out of the deepest of his jewellery boxes). Unless someone who already knew him was looking closely, he would not be recognised, would turn no heads – at least, not in ways he didn't want.  
  
He had always turned heads. In these parts of Cetho, certainly so.  
  
The bar was busy, though not, perhaps, as busy as he thought it would be. Many of its would-be clients were in the main squares, celebrating. Still, it was busy enough. Csevet bought a drink – metheglin spiced with thyme and sage, hyssop and cloves – and settled back to watch the crowd with practiced eyes. He was not watching for long. A man – perhaps with a little goblin blood, or perhaps it was just the light, but he was young and pretty and confident – bought him a second drink, and then Csevet bought the third round, and then they headed off to pay for a room for the evening.

\- - - - -

Csevet had sobered up a little as they'd fucked, but then they'd had a couple more drinks afterwards, stronger spirits than metheglin. By then the second man had taken interest in him, full goblin this time or close enough, older but with quick, laughing eyes, and, well–  
  
Which was to say that he was taking very slow, careful steps back to the main festivities, the glow of the lanterns and the sounds of music and laughter leading him when he lost his way. The satiated ache, and the pleasant buzz in his head (nothing to worry about, no need to think about reports that needed collecting, or nagging reminders to schedule meetings when there was no room for them, or the crease between Edrehasivar’s brows as he frowned), very almost made him long with foolish nostalgia for his days as a courier.  
  
The main square was lit bright as day; the humidity and the smell of food hit him like a physical wall – the traditional egg pastries, but also roasting meat and sweet potatoes, smoked in great fire pits. The sound was almost deafening, down here in the midst of the revelries: at least five impromptu bands played in addition to the main, official orchestra, and there was singing and cheering and shouted conversation. Csevet found an empty spot beside a stall selling charms for knowledge, understanding, and auspiciousness, and he turned to watch the dancers on the stage. There, men and women in formal costume – silk skirts wrapped around their waists and sleeves that draped to the floor and moved like smoke – flaunted their acrobatic prowess, dipping and twirling in beat with the drums. In the centre the main couple spun about each other, dazzling in reds and yellows and soft sky-blues, and did hand-flips and twirls and kicked their legs in vertical splits, fast then slow then fast again, always utterly controlled, always close but never touching.  
  
And there – on the edge of the stage, more compelling than all the food and music and dancers, to Csevet at least – sat the Imperial party; and there at the front of the Imperial party sat Edrehasivar himself. His long white robes were lit up in the firelight like he were a wavering flame himself, the adamant in his hair like embers in night smoke, and his face was too far away to see clearly but Csevet could fill in with memory what sight didn't allow.  
  
The sated joy in his chest fell down and collapsed with a sting.  
  
Edrehasivar would be beyond enthralled; he must never have seen anything like this. When enthralled by something beautiful or clever or tantalisingly unknown, his eyes like clean moorland fog would become like fog shone through with moonlight. His beautiful dark lips would part, just a fraction, and he'd lean forwards to get a better look. He would smile, and maybe even laugh, were it particularly wonderful. He would not know he was doing it, such was the enchantment.  
  
Was he like that now? He must be. Did the dancers know? Surely they did. Surely they could see him look at them in such amazement and wonder.  
  
Would they treasure it, and keep the memory more precious to them than stones or wealth or renown?  
  
For a single, stupid moment, Csevet wished that Edrehasivar were not up there, dressed in Imperial white and pearls and moonstone, but down here, in the crowd, with him. He wished that he himself were something beautiful or clever or tantalisingly unknown, in ways that Edrehasivar cared for. An unhappiness, achingly profound, sat in the back of his throat.  
  
The musicians playing behind him finished one song and started on the next. A woman bumped into Csevet's back and laughed as she apologised and disappeared back off into the crowd. A small dog with something in its mouth knocked into his legs as it ran past.  
  
Csevet turned from the stage. The smell of sweet potato was making him feel a little ill. Perhaps he should not have drunk quite as much as he had.  
  
It had never been his intention to return to the Untheileneise Court in anything less than utterly pristine condition, let alone as drunk as he was now – even if he crept in through the servants' routes, he was well known enough to be recognised. An old friend had offered him his bed for the night, and taken a clean set of Csevet's clothes and jewellery for him to change into come morning. It was a generous offer; Csevet had been looking forward to it. Now he wasn't so sure.  
  
But he couldn't return to the court like this, and he scarcely wanted to spend the next several hours sobering up here in the din of the festival, or in the dark streets. Imara’s bed was the only real option. Csevet swallowed carefully and found a stall selling cups of broth, the cuttings of the roast pork swimming in it in fatty, tender slivers. It did something to clear his head, though sat poorly in his stomach.  
  
The music had, at some point, turned sour, a cacophony of too many instruments playing at the same time and half of them hideously out of tune. It was a waste of the night, and he would be missing the fireworks, but he just wanted to crawl into bed. He wanted his own bed, cold and solitary within the silence of the Alcethmeret's stone walls, but that was also out of the question. Imara's bed would have to suffice, and maybe Imara would return home too late or tired to want to fuck. Probably not. He'd made it very clear that he'd been looking forward to Csevet under his sheets as well.  
  
Well, never mind. He’d just have to take the night as it came. And perhaps the walk would sober him up and he'd be more appreciative when he arrived. Csevet pushed his way out of the crowd, on the opposite side of the square from where he'd entered, and stopped to scrub at his face with the palms of his hands. He would still be able to make out the dancers' stage if he turned and looked, but – no. He unpinned his braids that were starting to come loose, redid them, and began walking.  
  
As he walked, trying not to sway, eyes slowly growing accustomed to the streets lit only by moon and stars, he let his mind drift; he thought about Edrehasivar. He thought about sitting in the Tortoise Room, at the desk, where it was warm by the fire. Edrehasivar would be with him. They’d talk about work, and they'd busy themselves with their respective duties, and in a quiet moment Edrehasivar might share his puzzlement over the forked beards he’d been seeing recently. Was it a new fashion, or some kind of statement – only, for what? And Csevet would say that it was the latest fad for a particular group of youth, and Edrehasivar ought to be glad he’d only seen the forked beards and not the doublets fashioned after them that had been popular three centuries ago.  
  
To which Edrehasivar would feel comfortable enough to admit, with a blush, that he’d also seen the doublets but he hadn’t had the slightest idea they were old and not the newest, most novel items of fashion.  
  
And the hours of midnight research Csevet had done into things he’d thought, at the time, were sure to be utterly useless were suddenly entirely worth it.  
  
Barely fifteen minutes away from the square, Cetho had transformed herself. The dampness was cold, now, instead of humid – it had rained yesterday, though thankfully cleared since. There were still the noises of the festival, of course, blurred to an indistinct rumble, but barely anyone passed him, and the sounds of Csevet’s footsteps echoed off the tall buildings on narrow streets, shop shutters closed on all sides. Imara's rooms were a fair distance and it was getting chilly; Csevet tugged his jacket closer around himself and carried on, taking careful steps as much to hide his drunken sway as to avoid the puddles. A cat was yowling in the distance, somewhere. Down a side street two men argued. He wondered when the fireworks would be let off. Perhaps he might be able to see them from the building roof where Imara lived.  
  
A way in further still and the rattle of a carriage, drawn by a pair of horses that puffed and snorted, came up from behind him. Csevet moved to the side of the road before a sharp word or a sharper crack of the coachman's whip could move him there. He paused a second to glance back – a private carriage, not a hackney that might take him back to the Alcethmeret, though it'd be a waste of money – then resumed walking. The carriage, however, swerved closer to him. Csevet again stepped to the side, and again, until he was pressed up against the wall of the shop, with nowhere further to go as the carriage pulled up and stopped beside him.  
  
He didn't recognise the coachman. It was a nobleman's carriage, newly lacquered and fit with a modern series of springs and suspension rods. More importantly, it was painted entirely in black, with no family crest or insignia, and the coachman didn't wear livery.  
  
Perhaps he was too drunk, or he'd been softened by a secretary's life; Csevet realised, very suddenly, that he should have run by now. His heart was beating hard and thick in his throat as the coachman jumped off, standing in front of him but making no other move. Csevet turned, but the carriage door swung open, and before Csevet could duck under it Dach'osmer Eshevis Tethimar stepped out. He jumped to the ground with a dry thump.  
  
The coachman grabbed Csevet's upper arm as Csevet pressed back into him.  
  
'Good evening,' Tethimar said. 'Mer Aisava. Ah – we don't believe we've been formally introduced.'  
  
In the darkness, the deep red of his formal dress coat and waistcoat, close-fitting and tailored to emphasise his broad shoulders, looked almost black. Then Tethimar stepped forwards and the edges of his coat, trimmed with gold embroidery in patterns of pine and willow, glinted warmly as they caught the light of the lamp at the carriage's front.  
  
Csevet's throat was dry, and he could barely make out the words. 'Dach'osmer Tethimar,' he said, and couldn’t manage anything else, not even a short bow, or correcting the way his ears had flattened to the point of pressing against his skull. Oh, Salezheio, he needed to escape. Why hadn't he run when he had the chance? If he broke the coachman’s grip he could duck under the coach – but he was drunk, and unsteady, and Tethimar would chase him–  
  
'Quite,' Tethimar said, spreading his hands and smiling, even as his coachman's grip on Csevet's arm tightened enough to be painful. It occurred to Csevet in a burst of near-hysteria that Tethimar didn't seem to recognise him beyond what he'd seen of him as Edrehasivar's secretary. A trick? No, Tethimar did not have the patience to not gloat immediately. He would have called him _courier_ _boy_ , and _fox._ Panic clawed at the insides of Csevet’s head, his chest, and he had to force away the urge to struggle. What did it matter if Tethimar did or didn't recognise him from Eshoravee? There was no mistaking what he wanted. If he did not run, Csevet would be handing himself over to him. But if he ran, he would be caught. Even if he were not caught, Tethimar would create trouble for Edrehasivar. More trouble than Csevet was worth.  
  
Csevet looked away from Tethimar’s eyes, down to the ground by the carriage's back wheels. He was trembling. If only he could just think, push the panic down and away and quell the drunkenness. If he attracted enough attention, would Tethimar let him go? Possibly. A scene such as that would reflect poorly on Tethimar's reputation. But he wouldn’t be able to attract enough attention here, not before Tethimar would stop him. Could he tempt Tethimar to where he could attract attention? Pretend to play along? Pretend to play the victim, rather than merely be it?  
  
'So,' Tethimar said. 'What brings you out this way?'  
  
'We have finished seeing the festival,' Csevet said, and the rushed plan was not clearing the fog in his mind, and he was painfully aware of how little effort he needed to put on hoarseness and lack of eloquence. 'If you have no further need of us, please excuse us; we are expected back at the Alcethmeret. There is much work to be done.'  
  
'Who said we have no further need of you?' Tethimar's smile was razor sharp. He took a step closer, and Csevet stumbled back up against the coachman, who pushed him forwards. And, gods, he had the end result of the plan, but not how to get there – how to get Tethimar to let him lead him anywhere, much less back towards the crowd?  
  
'Dach'osmer,’ Csevet said, then froze as Tethimar reached towards him. The pad of his thumb brushed Csevet's cheek. Very gently, he pulled one of Csevet’s tashin sticks from his hair; a couple of braids fell from where they were pinned, slipping down his back.  
  
Tethimar drew the tip of the tashin stick down Csevet’s jaw, to underneath his chin, using it to tilt Csevet’s head up. Then he held it up and looked at it, winding the ribbon around one finger. His eyes were dark and full of smiling knowledge.  
  
'Dach'osmer, we need to return,’ Csevet said again, and hated the way his voice trembled. He had never been as brave as some he knew, but he hadn't been a coward either. Now Tethimar made him one.  
  
The tashin stick clattered to the ground as Tethimar dropped it. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘We believe we saw thee come from a rather… improper part of the city. And these are of very distinctive design, are they not?’  
  
Csevet couldn't help but tense at the drop into informal. 'Forgive us, but you must have mistaken someone else for us,’ he said, even as he cursed himself. Think, _think._ Why couldn’t he think? He had drunk too much; he was letting fear control him. His heart was beating hard in his throat, enough to make him feel sick. This wasn't meant to happen. Not any more. The thought circled his head like crows and wouldn't leave.  
  
Tethimar didn’t reply in words; he tugged Csevet’s other tashin stick from his hair and dropped it as well. Then he smiled.  
  
How to lure Tethimar down the street and still have it seem like Tethimar were fully in control of the situation? How?  
  
Tethimar leant in, close enough Csevet could smell the alcohol on his breath. ‘We shall give thee a choice,’ he said, low, and Csevet couldn’t tear his eyes from Tethimar’s. He could feel his shoulders tremble. ‘Either thou comest into our carriage willingly, where we will ensure pleasure is had on both our parts, and we will return thee, unharmed, to thy doorstep. And thou wilt find that we can be a generous lover. Or thou refusest – in which case, wilt be dragged into the nearest alleyway where we will beat thee and take our pleasure from thee by force, and leave thee broken in the mud for the next man looking for cheap haymarket wares. Dost understand?'  
  
A moment of held breath; Tethimar ran his hand up Csevet's arm, along his shoulder to the back of his neck, which he gripped. 'Do not keep us waiting, pretty one,' he said.  
  
'Edrehasivar–' Csevet barely choked out the word, and stumbled when his mind blanked on how to continue. He could smell Tethimar's cologne: rich and woody, scented with orange and pimento. It crept up his nose and coated his throat.  
  
'Edrehasivar,' Tethimar said, and tightened his hold on Csevet's neck. 'Wouldn't it be a scandal an the court found out what Edrehasivar's darling secretary, hand-picked, got up to in his spare time? Where he went and what he did on such holy days as this? Wonder'st not what else they'd imagine he did?'  
  
There it was, the true force behind Tethimar's threat, whether he knew it or not. Csevet could fight, could bite and scratch and kick and scream, were he fighting for himself. He could run and hide and resign himself to the very likely chance of rape and being beaten close to death, or to death itself. But now – now there was no way to keep this from Edrehasivar. He worked for Edrehasivar – he lived for him. He cared for Edrehasivar, and gods help them both, Edrehasivar cared for him.  
  
How absurd that he had thought being Edrehasivar's secretary would protect him.  
  
'Let go of us,' Csevet said, thin and trembling, which was just as well, because Tethimar would have responded badly to forcefulness. 'Tell nothing to anyone of us, and we will go with you in your carriage. And we will – we will cooperate, in any way you desire of us.'  
  
And, Csevet thought, if Tethimar did start spreading rumours, then at least he would have had the time to sober up before he had to deal with them.  
  
'So presumptuous,' Tethimar said, and laughed, the movement of it shaking Csevet through Tethimar's grip on him. 'We do not recall having given thee our silence in one of thy choices.'  
  
'Dach'osmer,' Csevet said, and ducked his head a little – an old, familiar action, letting him look up at Tethimar even more than their different heights allowed. He wet his lips. 'Do this, and I will be grateful – so grateful. It is pleasure you want, is it not?'  
  
Salezheio, how he hated it, this old performance. How he'd thought he'd finally got to leave it behind. Oh, but how it worked. Tethimar's eyes widened, just the smallest of fractions, and his breathing caught – barely noticeable, but noticeable enough when he was leant so close to Csevet.  
  
'Very well,' Tethimar said, after a pause, and Csevet didn't let the relief show on his face. He wasn't sure what he was feeling was relief at all. 'We are generous. But thou must be... very grateful.'  
  
'Yes,' Csevet said, letting himself breathe out the word. This part was always easy. It was carrying on the act through the next part that would prove the challenge. 'I am. Whatever you will me to do, I will do.'  
  
Tethimar's eyes flickered over Csevet's shoulder, and the grip on Csevet's arm fell away as the coachman stepped back, though he didn't move more than a few paces. They still thought he would try to run, Csevet thought distantly. If he wanted to run he would duck under the carriage, slap the horses into motion, create confusion and escape that way – but never mind. He was not going to run.  
  
This would not be like last time.  
  
He pushed away the bitterness rising up in him, so powerful it clogged his throat and threatened to choke him. He could cry and sulk and wallow in the bitterness later. He knew that last part, too. For now, all he had to do was concentrate on getting through to it unharmed.  
  
'How may–' Csevet said, and licked his lips again, not entirely for show. His mouth was dry, and his voice close to cracking. 'How may I show my gratitude?  
  
Rings scraped his skin as Tethimar ran the back of his hand down Csevet's face, from his forehead to curl his fingertips under Csevet's chin, then up again to lie, heavy, on the top of his head. Tethimar pushed him onto his knees, and he allowed it, leaning forwards to reach for Tethimar's trouser buttons – but then another push, until he was staring at the ground, and Tethimar's boots – ah.  
  
This was not so hard. Csevet's head swam a little as he bent and pressed his lips to the toe of Tethimar's boot, lingering there a second before flicking out his tongue to lap at it in little cat-like licks. The boot was dirty; Tethimar had been walking the streets, then, not just riding in his carriage, but it was far from the worn, grime-encrusted shoe of a courier or farmer or anyone who worked outside. Tall black boots, still in fashion, though more often seen in the country estates than in Cetho or at the Untheileneise Court, where the military had less influence. Leather, tasting of mud and polish, and Csevet had to concentrate otherwise he'd start to think about the gaze burning into the back of his head, the thought of what he was actually doing and what was going to come next, out here in an abandoned street, licking Tethimar's boots–  
  
He pressed his tongue flat against the instep, hard enough that even through the thick leather Tethimar should surely be able to feel the pressure of it. His breathing had become unsteady. He needed to stop for a second, calm the way his lungs were hitching and throat tightening, but he didn't dare. His head spun. He wasn't sure what Tethimar would do if he stopped. He didn't want this part to stop – he could lick boots until the sun rose, so long as Tethimar didn't–  
  
No. He needed to stop thinking about that. Tethimar wasn't lifting his feet, which meant Csevet wasn't going to have to touch the soles of them, and that was one relief at least. He just had to concentrate on the task at hand. Press his lips to the toe and around the sides as if he were kissing a lover's jawline. Cradle the heel with his hands, lick every inch so there was no visible dirt left. Ignore the taste in his mouth. Focus. Think about the wet stone under his knees, the way his own shoes were pinching his feet with the way he was crouching. Bob his head, lick long and slow and keep going until told to stop, even though his gorge was rising and he wanted to be sick, dizzy and stomach roiling and throat so tight he could barely breathe.  
  
His jaw ached. Strands of hair, coming loose from their braids, fell over his shoulders and got in his face. They stuck to Tethimar's wet boots, and kept falling forward no matter how many times he tried to brush them back.  
  
'Enough,' Tethimar said, and combed his fingers through Csevet's hair to tug him up, gentle but inexorable. He tilted Csevet's chin up, leaving him on his knees, and smiled at the sight. Csevet closed his eyes, but only briefly. No good – men like Tethimar never liked to feel ignored, so he opened his eyes to look down, forcing himself to stay still under Tethimar's scrutiny. Moments passed, achingly long. His face was flushed, lips wet with saliva. He wished he could be let back at licking his boots. Tension ran through him like wires.  
  
'Good boy,' Tethimar said, indulgence spilling from his words. He flicked his ears; his ruby earrings chimed against each other, and his red-gold ear cuffs styled in the likeness of copper beech leaves caught the light. 'Now, into the carriage.'  
  
Csevet's knees were damp, his palms dirty, and he left marks on the black lacquer as he clambered inside. It was spacious for a carriage, but he still could feel the walls close in around him – even more so when Tethimar sat down next to him, close enough that their legs brushed, and reached over him to unhook the curtain and let it fall shut.  
  
The street outside, lit only by the moon and stars (Cstheio's stars – Edrehasivar's stars), disappeared. Csevet sat, blinking into the darkness, and flinched at the sound of the coachman jumping on and whipping the horses into motion.  
  
'He'll go a quiet route,' Tethimar said, so close to him in the darkness. 'So canst make as much noise as thou need'st, our little bird of paradise.'  
  
Did Tethimar want a response? Csevet nodded, a single jerk of his head, but of course Tethimar wouldn't be able to see it. He couldn't make himself speak. He just needed to do whatever it took to survive. Let Tethimar think he'd won; Csevet would survive. At least he'd survive.  
  
'On thy knees,' Tethimar said. 'Thou knowest what to do.'  
  
Yes, he knew what to do. In the dark he had to feel for the edge of the seat that he could slip to his knees on the floor, and it was almost possible to forget the face of the man above him. There wasn't much room on the carriage floor; he had to bend his legs awkwardly, kneeling between Tethimar's legs. His fingers trembled as he undid the buttons on Tethimar's trousers and freed his cock, already half-hard.  
  
It tasted much like any other cock Csevet had sucked. The weight of it, rapidly thickening on his tongue, was a familiar one. The wool barathea of Tethimar's dark-grey trousers was smooth and warm under his hands, where they rested lightly on Tethimar's thighs.  
  
A hand wound through his hair, broad and strong, and held him still, though Csevet pulled his hands to himself, stopping just short of wrapping his arms around his waist. 'Ah,' Tethimar said, then knocked on the ceiling. 'A light,' he called out, and Csevet closed his eyes and waited as the carriage stopped, and the door opened, and a small lamp's light turned the insides of his eyelids from black to red. Then the carriage rattled and bumped back into motion.  
  
'Open thine eyes,' Tethimar said, mildly, and Csevet opened them. Be obedient, be small and meek, and leave with as few bruises (as few broken bones) as possible. Do what he tells thee to and perhaps Edrehasivar will never know of this.  
  
When Tethimar didn't say any more, only relaxed his hold, Csevet began to move again. He hollowed out his cheeks and bobbed his head, pressing the flat of his tongue to the underside of Tethimar's cock and feeling it jump. Tethimar's hand was still on his head, fingers combing through his hair to guide his motions and loosen his braids even further. He stroked Csevet's ears, running his fingernails down the soft skin of the back of them. Csevet's breath hitched at the sensation, a shiver trembling down his spine, and Tethimar made a low noise of approval.  
  
(It would be so, so very easy to bite. He didn't bite.)  
  
Tethimar's cock was fully hard now, a hot, solid weight on Csevet's tongue, larger than he would have liked had he any preference in the matter, nudging the back of his throat on each downward bob of his head. Above him, Tethimar groaned as Csevet curled the tip of his tongue around his cock head, swiping broadly at the slit. The hand in Csevet's hair tightened and forced him down, Tethimar's cock pressing against the back of his throat. Csevet swallowed down his gag, barely. His chest heaved with a sudden flare of panic.  
  
Keep calm – it was fine, he could control himself, he'd done this before. His stomach roiled, bucked, and Csevet, without meaning to, tried to lift his head to gasp in a little air.  
  
Tethimar forced him back down again. Csevet couldn't help his short cry, muffled by the cock pressing into his mouth, down his throat, choking him; the hand in his hair was gripping hard enough to hurt, and the other hand found his ear and twisted it.  
  
There wasn't enough room in the carriage to fall back and scramble away, even if he could. Csevet gagged, and gagged again as he was pressed down even further, his nose pushed up against Tethimar's pubis. The scent of musk and sweat crept up Csevet's nose, and stuck there. His back arched, hands finding Tethimar's hips and thighs to shove at, and he was crying in pain at his ear and throat scraped raw and he couldn't breathe–  
  
Tethimar let go and Csevet shot up, scrambling back onto the seat opposite Tethimar. He put his hands up to his head as he bent over double – a defensive gesture, as if to block a kick or strike, and utterly useless – gagging and gasping and swallowing away the urge to throw up. His heart was beating in his chest like a sparrow's wingbeat, or a hare's heart, the creature pinned to the ground beneath the trapper's hand.  
  
'Not such a poised and graceful thing after all,' Tethimar said. 'But hast a talented mouth. Or merely well-practiced?'  
  
From his tone, he didn't want an answer so much as to hear himself speak. Csevet swallowed, and swallowed again, and the taste in his mouth would not leave. If he ran now he could certainly escape – Tethimar would not leave the carriage with his cock exposed, and the coachman would be taken by surprise, and be on the entirely wrong side of the carriage to do anything besides. But Edrehasivar – the damage Tethimar could do to his reputation. To his policies and strategies he'd worked so hard to push through.  
  
Even if it weren't enough to overthrow him, or cause him real damage, he'd still have to deal with the vexation of it, and he was vexed enough already. The political damage would be more trouble than it was worth (more than Csevet was worth). And Csevet would be sent away as the cause of the problem, and who then would take his place? And who would take Edrehasivar's place in Csevet's life?  
  
'Undress,' Tethimar said, like he were inviting him to drink. His ears were tilted forwards as if politely interested.  
  
There wasn't much room at all to undress. Csevet remained on the seat and pulled off his jacket and shirt, rolling them up and placing them next to him. He undid his shoes and toed them off, and his socks, and trousers and underclothes, trying to be perfunctory and neat instead of teasing, but his hands were trembling and he couldn't seem to make himself work as fast or efficiently as he knew he should.  
  
After a moment's hesitation he removed his earrings, and the ribbon tied around his neck, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. He wished he were wearing more, just so he could have taken longer in removing those extra clothes as well. Tethimar's eyes on him made him feel rubbed raw, as if he'd peeled off another layer he hadn't known existed, and now he was more naked than in merely his skin.  
  
'Here,' Tethimar said, and held out his arms to beckon Csevet onto his lap.  
  
There was a trick to this, Csevet knew: he had to clear his head and let it act out like it was the most natural thing in the world, and then forget it ever happened. But first he had to clear his head, otherwise the fear would have a foundation to build on, and the panic would creep in, the horror of it all and the visceral disgust. The rage and hurt would feed off each other and grow and grow until they couldn't be contained, and then–  
  
He'd thought he could do this. He'd been good at it, even, back before. But his heart wouldn't stop beating hard enough to make him sick – or perhaps that was the alcohol? It was the drink that was making the carriage seem to spin, and pulsing a dull beat behind his eyes.  
  
Tethimar was about to get impatient. He was easy enough to read – drunk, playfully cruel, ready to turn bitterly so the moment his amusement stopped. His ears were cocked forwards, his mouth twisted in enjoyment. Indulgent.  
  
Csevet closed his eyes. He had a few moments. Focus on the feel of the seat beneath him – polished wood, a silk cushion. He had to climb on that man's lap – the man who'd picked him off the street to rape like a man selecting fruit at market.  
  
Enough waiting. Csevet opened his eyes and clambered onto Tethimar's lap, seating himself so that Tethimar's cock pressed against the cleft of his arse. Even through his clothes Tethimar was hot on Csevet's skin; heat radiated from him. Csevet rolled his hips and put his hands on Tethimar, clutching at the lapels of his coat as Tethimar drew in a sharp breath.  
  
Sitting like this they were not so very different in height – Csevet was short and Tethimar tall, and the few extra inches Csevet gained from Tethimar's lap levelled them eye-to-eye. Tethimar drew Csevet into a kiss with a hand in his hair, forceful. His lips felt bruisingly hard on Csevet's; he tasted of smoke and spirits as Csevet opened his mouth to let him in.  
  
Tethimar's other hand traced down the curve of Csevet's spine, not waiting before it slipped into the cleft of his arse and pressed one finger into him. Csevet bucked, and Tethimar groaned into his mouth as his cock rubbed along the length of skin behind Csevet's balls. He pushed another finger inside, as deep as he could given the awkward angle, and swallowed down the whine that crept, uninvited, from Csevet's lips.  
  
'Thou'rt already prepared for us,' Tethimar said, as they broke apart. He was panting already, rocking his hips to drag his cock against Csevet's skin. 'How considerate of thee.'  
  
The men at the bar, earlier that night – Csevet had almost forgotten about them. He took a deep breath and hated the way it shuddered. His chest was heaving, quick and shallow, and he couldn't slow it; trying only made him feel strangled. Tethimar pulled his head forwards until his lips were brushing Csevet's neck.  
  
'Hush, darling,' he said. 'We have seen thine eyes shine with calf-love at our young emperor. We will help thee take thy mind from him. Do not cry.' Tethimar kissed him, wet, mouthing at the column of his neck, and sucked a long, slow bruise just beneath his jawline, where there was no hope of covering it.  
  
Was he crying? Csevet let his head be turned so Tethimar could lick his way from one side to the other. He supposed he was.  
  
Tethimar's fingers were thrusting into him, slow and steady, and Csevet let his hips rock into them, biting down on his lower lip so not to make a sound. Muscle memory guided him and he let it. Tethimar's lips and tongue at his neck, and the feel of Tethimar's fingers inside of him, stretching him but not painfully so – the touch of Tethimar's cock on his skin, the touch of Tethimar's clothes on his own cock – a warmth started to pool in his belly, and wouldn't go away even as Csevet bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood. A third finger nudged at him, pressing in, and Csevet tensed around it, and moaned closed-mouthed as Tethimar's fingers pushed up inside him and pressed in that spot–  
  
Tethimar laughed, a low chuckle, and repeated the action. Csevet's hips jerked, and Tethimar's hand fell from his hair to his waist, circling him to hold him down.  
  
'Hush,' he said. 'Art beautiful, art young and soft and gentle. It's small wonder Edrehasivar took thee for himself. Tell us, dost sob so plaintively in his bed-chamber? Does the ache for his prick have thee trembling so sweetly as does the ache for ours?'  
  
He wanted a response, but not one in words. His fingers crooked, curling and pressing up and Csevet opened his mouth to gasp, leaning forwards to hide his face in Tethimar's shoulder; the silk velvet of his coat was cool on his forehead. Csevet was trembling, his body reacting without him wanting it to. This was all part of it, of course, but most times it didn't happen; why Tethimar, of all people? He had to survive. He had to let his body do what Tethimar wanted it to. He didn't want to. He didn't want Tethimar – another stroke of Tethimar's fingers and Csevet pushed down against him, moaning as he forced himself wider and Tethimar deeper and hating himself for it. Tethimar would have a knife on him, somewhere – a blade at his waist, decorative but functional. All young noblemen did, and Tethimar would be the last exception to that rule. It would be so easy for Csevet to slip his hand down, take it, and slice Tethimar open throat to cock, and leave him here to bleed out.  
  
It would be easy, but the consequences...  
  
Salezheio, how he wanted to, and damn the consequences.  
  
The hand on his waist moved up, threading through his hair to tug his head back. 'We want to see thy face as we impale thee on our prick,' Tethimar said, rough and breathless. 'We want to see thee squirm upon it, and beg us for every inch more we so generously gift thee.'  
  
Lips pressed to his as the fingers inside him pulled out, and Tethimar's tongue pressed in and out of his mouth in a parody of his fingers, his cock in Csevet's arse. Tethimar smiled against Csevet's mouth and pulled him up by the hair, until Csevet was forced to rise, balancing awkwardly on his knees bumping up against the back of the seat. With his free hand Tethimar moved his cock into position. 'Open thine eyes,' he said, very softly.  
  
Csevet opened his eyes and for an achingly long moment held Tethimar's gaze, their faces so close Csevet could count the individual eyelashes on Tethimar's hooded eyes, cast in an amber light by the lamp, and hated him. He could feel sweat prickle on his own forehead, and tears on his cheeks, and hated that too. His hands fumbled on Tethimar's jacket. He could feel the roughness of the embroidery under his fingers, and this close could see each stitch of the twisting branches and birds in flight.  
  
'Sweetling, do not look so fearful. Did we not say we would give thee pleasure, too?'  
  
Tethimar kissed him as he pulled him down, pushing the head of his cock into him in one smooth motion. His lips were slow and languid, betrayed by the catch in his breath as Csevet trembled and rose without meaning to until Tethimar's cock fell out of him.  
  
Without saying anything, Tethimar's teeth caught Csevet's lower lip; he sucked at it even as he repositioned himself and pushed back in with a small thrust of his hips. Csevet whined into Tethimar's mouth, arching his back and tightening his grip on Tethimar's jacket. He could feel sweat on his skin, across his exposed back, and he felt cold for it even as the violence of the emotion clutching his lungs and heart made him hot. He gasped and shuddered a breath as Tethimar pulled him down another inch, and closed his eyes as he caught himself. Calm – calm – he rolled his hips, settling that much deeper, and Tethimar's hand stroked up and down his flank.  
  
'Good boy, yes – good, thou look'st so perfect, opening up for us – taking us in, just as thou'rt made for – beautiful, art beautiful–'  
  
Guided by the tug of the hand in his hair, Csevet rose an inch then dropped down, again and again to take in a little more each time, and Tethimar kissed him deeply before moving his mouth to Csevet's neck again. He bit, barely more than a nip, then bit properly until Csevet jerked away and Tethimar chuckled as he kissed the bruised flesh.  
  
The carriage jolted, running over a pothole or bump in the road, and Csevet slipped, dropping onto Tethimar's lap with his knees slipping from the seat. Another inch of Tethimar's cock, unexpected, and Csevet couldn't help but make a sharp little noise as he tried to rise but hands held him in place. Tethimar bent his head and pressed his lips and tongue and teeth to Csevet's collarbones, and urged him down further still.  
  
Csevet took in another inch, rose, then rocked down again, an agonisingly slow rise and fall until he was seated entirety, and he could feel the full stretch and burn within him.  
  
'There.' Hands stroked his skin, hot and sweat-streaked, hungry. 'There, darling. That was not so bad, was it?'  
  
The look in his eyes told Csevet he wanted an answer, this time. 'No,' Csevet whispered.  
  
'Dost like it? Art trembling with our prick filling thee up to the brim?'  
  
'Yes...'  
  
'Wantest more? Dost want us to fuck thee, take thee until thou'rt insensible with need for our prick?  
  
'Yes...'  
  
A hand on his arse, urging him to move his hips, rock them gently and then not gently until he was fucking himself on Tethimar's cock. A hand tracing his front, brushing his stomach and navel. It pinched his nipples, rolling them between forefinger and thumb. A mouth pressed to his jaw, taking in the lobe of one ear to nibble on. And a hand grasping his cock, stroking it very gently before leaving. The same hand, pressing its fingers into his mouth. Csevet half turned away before catching himself, and panted as he sucked weakly at the fingers pressing down on his tongue. He curled his tongue beneath them, lapping at them as best he could, and Tethimar smiled as he removed his hand and wrapped it around Csevet's cock, more firmly this time.  
  
Csevet jerked, his whole body convulsing. The muscles in his lower back jumped, and he almost would have thrown himself backwards never mind that there was no room for it at all, save for Tethimar's hand holding the back of his neck.  
  
'Please–' He did not quite know why he was saying it; the word slipped from his mouth without him meaning it to. He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he heard it.  
  
'Yes,' Tethimar said, hot and dark and breathless. 'Beg us for thy release.'  
  
Csevet didn't beg – he rolled his hips sharply with the vague hope that he might distract Tethimar, and it seemed to work. Tethimar's head tilted back and he drew in a sharp breath, and Csevet rolled his hips again, using his knees on the seat to lift and drop himself onto Tethimar's cock, harder and faster. Tethimar groaned and swore, half curse and half incoherence, and gripped Csevet's hair all the tighter. The leather thong tying his braids together had come undone; Tethimar's grip shifted and it fell to the floor. The braids undid themselves fully, falling in sheets about his shoulders and back, sticking to his sweat-slicked skin.  
  
Tethimar's hand on his cock squeezed and began moving in earnest, in time with Csevet's hips, and Tethimar grinned at him with dark, hungry eyes. He swiped his thumb over the slit of Csevet's cock, running the square tips of his fingers, careful with his nails, just grazing them so gently across the skin, along the underside of Csevet's length. He pulled, and the carriage jolted again, throwing Csevet from his rhythm. The warm, unwelcome pleasure inside him had turned hot, grasping at his insides, making him pant for air. He could feel his lungs unspooling from the bottom, draining into that molten core as it built and built with every wet slide of Tethimar's hand on him, and the shift of his cock in him, and Tethimar's mouth on his neck, sucking and grazing his teeth over the pulse point.  
  
Salezheio, he was going to come, and soon. It hadn't been that long since his last encounters, the men at the bar – an hour since the second, and not even two since the first, and he felt rubbed raw and over-sensitive.  
  
Csevet whined into Tethimar's hair, and bucked up, feeling his thighs tensing and balls tightening. He didn't want Tethimar to have this – not this, but Tethimar was taking it anyway and he was close, so close – Tethimar sped up a little, drawing the pad of his thumb across the base of Csevet's cock head, dragging it slow and hard and then–  
  
Just before Csevet came, Tethimar withdrew his hand, and bit hard on the lobe of Csevet's ear. The pain cleared his mind, just a little, and Csevet became horribly aware of his cock between them, nudging up against his bare stomach and leaking precome, but on the wrong side of orgasm, just. His whole body trembled with it. Tethimar licked his ear, a long, wet stripe from lobe to tip, and Csevet's cock jumped.  
  
'How thou likest this rough treatment,' Tethimar said. 'How desperately thou criest for it! Beg, our lovely one, our little hedge whore. Beg for our hand on thy prick.'  
  
Csevet didn't beg. (The knife – he could still take it. His head spun with the thought of that knife.) Tethimar rested his hand on Csevet's thigh, stroking the soft skin on the inside of it, then moved to Csevet's hip to half-lift, half-guide him up and very almost off Tethimar's cock. He guided the roll of Csevet's hips down, shallow, bending Csevet forward until the angle scraped something inside Csevet, and Csevet clenched down on him, sobbing out a sudden cry. Tethimar used both hands to guide the motion again when Csevet didn't move, and Csevet bucked and pawed at Tethimar's jacket with nerveless hands.  
  
'Beg.'  
  
He felt so hot – he was burning up inside, his organs all tied together on a single string that was being tugged with each motion of his body, the swell and burn as Tethimar's cock stretched him and made him fit around it. His own cock was hard enough to ache, slapping against his stomach, edging closer and closer to orgasm but not yet there. Not yet–  
  
If Tethimar were anyone else – if he were anyone else, and Edrehasivar anyone else – but he wasn't, and they weren't, and Salezheio, he hated Tethimar. For doing this now, for doing what he had done ten years ago; the hatred stole his breath and made his bones hurt. He had never hated anyone so much as this – as if the rage would burn him up from the inside, wanting so strongly to burn Tethimar by touch alone, even if in the process it left Csevet an empty husk. Tears dripped freely down his face. It gripped his throat and strangled him.  
  
'Beg, our beautiful whore, like wert made to.'  
  
Tethimar's hand on his cock. That tug on his insides again, racing up his spine, making his toes curl and his back arch. He needed release. He was so close, so very close–  
  
Then, nothing but Csevet gasping into Tethimar's shoulder, exhausted, trembling and strung so tight it felt like his bones would collapse in on themselves with the strain.  
  
He needed it to be over. He needed to curl away and pretend it never happened. He needed his cold, empty bed, deep in the silent weight of centuries of stone, in his room in the Alcethmeret.  
  
'Beg.'  
  
There was a sob in his throat, blocking his voice, but once it had fallen away the words poured out, wet and hoarse and only coherent at all for their simplicity.  
  
'Please, please, Dach'osmer, please–'  
  
'What dost want?'  
  
'Your hand on me, please–'  
  
'Since thou askest so nicely.'  
  
The hand around his cock seemed to seize all of him at once, tugging just twice before he was pushed over the edge. Csevet cried out as he orgasmed, that string around his organs yanking down hard, come landing on his stomach and chest, hot against his skin. Tethimar laughed, and kissed his open mouth, hand still on his cock to wring out the last few agonising drops.  
  
When Tethimar put both hands on Csevet's hips, to move him into fucking himself on Tethimar's cock, Csevet let him. He felt boneless. His body could not decide if it were too cold or too hot. There was helpless fury and shame all twisted up inside him, bone-deep. He closed his eyes as he let Tethimar kiss him, and rolled his hips so Tethimar's grip and guidance need not be bruising.  
  
Tethimar came inside him only moments later, hips jerking up to meet Csevet's where they rocked down, and he dug his fingernails into Csevet's skin on the small of his back. His lips fell away from Csevet's, uncoordinated, but found Csevet's neck, and he kissed and bit there in turns until Csevet was distantly sure he must be bleeding.  
  
Slowly, Tethimar stilled, save for his heavy breathing. He let go of Csevet, and after a moment Csevet, ignoring the empty ache inside him, slid from Tethimar's lap and slumped back against the opposite seat. His legs felt weak; he was glad of the seat's proximity, in an abstract way – for all that it meant closeness to Tethimar, he did not think he could manage any greater distance.  
  
His ears were shivering; had he his earrings on, they would be ringing with the movement. His hand also trembled when he lifted it to press one ear then the other flat to his head in an attempt to still them, and brush his hair back from his face. He looked at the floor, and the corners of the carriage. He wasn't quite sure what to do with his body.  
  
The feel of something trickling between his legs – he ignored it.  
  
Tethimar was watching him. He had a handkerchief and was using it to wipe his hands and cock, which he then tucked away. He fastened his clothing, dropped the handkerchief to the floor, and looked back up at Csevet with dark, smiling eyes.  
  
'Dress. We do not imagine thou hast long before we arrive.'  
  
Csevet dressed. There was barely any space – far less, it seemed, than the space he'd had to undress. He wiped his own come off his skin with the sleeve of his jacket, but could feel it there, still. Ignore it. He had to just ignore it, and pretend it hadn't happened, because there was nothing else he could do. The bumping carriage together with his clumsy fingers made it impossible to get his earrings in, though he sat there trying until his arms ached from holding them up. He left them in his pocket, and retied the ribbon around his neck, and winced as it rubbed against the teeth-marks.  
  
The only sound he could hear was his own harsh breathing, and heartbeat roaring in his ears, and, very faintly, the rattle of the carriage. Tethimar was watching him but leaning back, making no move towards him. Was it over? No – was this part over – the violent part, the external part before the internal, the agonising walk to his bed and the hours he spent lying there. He couldn't tell.  
  
The carriage slowed and stopped, and Tethimar made a languid motion to the door with his head.  
  
'Perhaps we shall see thee again.'  
  
Csevet got out. His legs almost folded beneath him as he landed on the polished stone of the street outside the Untheileneise Court's Eastern Gate, and he stood there as the carriage left. He didn't turn to watch it go.  
  
That first part was over, then. He'd survived. The thought seemed to skim off him, and didn't touch the roil below surface depth.  
  
And now for the second part: the part in which he forgot this had ever happened, and picked himself up, and moved on.  
  
There were guards at the gate, and they'd seen him, but Csevet didn't approach. Not when – his hair was loose and tangled, his clothes rumpled. He had no tashin sticks. His face must still be flushed, his lips red and swollen. And his neck. He must look – no, he couldn't go in looking like this. They wouldn't let him in, looking like this.  
  
But Imara's rooms were far too far away, now. He'd have to walk half the night just to get there, and the night was more than half-gone already. Where, then? He couldn't very well wander the streets this close to the court, where someone might well recognise him.  
  
Csevet turned and walked – any direction, so long as it was away – and finding a corner he took it and sat down on a doorstep, where the street was blessedly empty. He let his head hang and ears droop, pressing his eyes tight shut. Let people think he was deep in his cups. If that were all they thought about him, then it'd be a blessing. Mechanically, he redid his hair in a single braid and tied it with his neck ribbon. To have arrived at the Eastern Gate, he thought, Tethimar's coachman must have gone a very long route indeed. But never mind that now.  
  
He couldn't go in through one of the many servants' gates – the servants would know exactly what had happened to him, more so than anyone else. He was not so good an actor that he could pretend he'd wanted this. They would know, and look at him in pity. What, then, now?  
  
He was meant to be beyond this. He had left the courier fleet – this wasn't meant to have happened. This shouldn't have happened. He was supposed to be beyond this.  
  
Tethimar hadn't even recognised him. He'd wanted him for his pretty face and slight, slender body and all the same reasons he'd wanted him ten years ago in Eshoravee.  
  
His hands were shaking. Csevet looked down at them in dull surprise. Since when had they done that?  
  
The sound of the Imperial party returning from the festival proceeded the party itself by quite a way – there were people lining up in the street to catch a glance of Edrehasivar in his brilliant white robes, his sharply handsome face, elegant and expressive and no doubt tired by now, straining not to yawn. There was excited chatter and laughter as people jostled for the best positions. Edrehasivar introducing another festival day had not been, at least on his part, a calculated attempt to increase his already glowing public image, but that was what it was certainly doing.  
  
The Imperial party would be passing right by Csevet, to enter the Eastern Gate. Csevet hesitated, standing now but hanging back, behind the line of people waiting. He could not bear it if Edrehasivar caught sight of him like this – and yet, he would have to see him on the morrow, and paints and powders could only do so much to hide bruised skin. And there was no collar high enough to hide all of it. Tethimar had made sure to place his marks exactly where they would be seen.  
  
Flute players made up the front end of the procession, and Csevet's ears twitched to hear them play their silvery music. Edrehasivar must be as much embarrassed as anything else by the pomp of them. Behind the flutists came the first line of the Untheileneise Guard, in full ceremonial dress – and, at their appearance, Csevet turned and left. At least in the commotion it was that much easier to slip through the servants' gate, and from there make the long journey back through the Untheileneise Court's many empty and forgotten corridors. Most parts of the court were in use by various families and offices, but some lay empty and dormant, windows boarded up and furniture left to grow mould, sometimes for decades on end. No one used the rooms – or at least, no one was meant to – but the servants' passages around them were left open. Lamps hung on every corner, none of them lit; they were all supposed to be, even here, but whoever governed the lamplighters was willing to lend a blind eye in favour of economy. Instead, tallow candles were kept in little boxes on the stone floor, and Csevet took one to guide himself down the back passages of disused halls, offices and kitchens. The couriers called them the candle roads, and haunted them like cats haunt small, secret places.  
  
Csevet hadn't been in the candle roads since Edrehasivar's arrival, but it was rare that the shortest routes throughout the Untheileneise Court did not include at least some of them – the journey from the Eastern Gate to the mooring post's customs office was made of them almost entirely. Every Imperial courier knew the shortest routes, and Csevet's memory was very good.  
  
It smelt familiar: of dust and damp and soot, and it was quiet. Csevet let himself linger, just for a while.  
  
Still, there was no getting around running into busier areas; Csevet blew out his candle and left it in another box, and by the time he was inside the Alcethmeret he could feel the eyes of men and women who knew him, watching him. He ignored them. The pneumatic girl at the station must have seen him, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, and didn't even glance to see who was on shift that night.  
  
No one tried to stop him. Csevet was grateful for that, in a deep, tired way. He wasn't sure what he'd have done if someone had tried.  
  
He slipped into his room – finally, finally – and closed the door behind him. It was pitch-black inside, without a light, and cold, and silent. Having gone a direct route but travelling at a slower pace, Edrehasivar must be similarly preparing for bed, Csevet thought.  
  
His edocharei would braid his hair up out of the way and bathe him with oil of lemon and lavender soaps, and dry him in the softest linen. Csevet undressed, washed with a cloth and the pitcher of water left on his dressing table, and slipped into bed. His whole body ached. Who would be on shift, tonight – Edrehasivar's First or Second Nohecharei? Csevet had not noticed who'd been with him earlier that evening. Edrehasivar might want to talk with them, at least a little, about what he'd seen that night. He'd be regretful that his nohecharei who hadn't been on duty had been obliged to miss it.  
  
Then, Edrehasivar would refuse a drink of tea, would yawn and politely say that all he wanted to do now was sleep. He would be dressed in his night-clothes. His hair would be brushed, every long, thick curl of it, that Csevet wanted – just once – to touch, run his fingers through and see if it felt as it looked. Edrehasivar, having had his hair brushed and braided for bed, would then slide under his blankets and silk sheets and he would sleep. He would be happy. His night would have been happy.  
  
And come morning, when he looked at Csevet, he'd still have a little of that excitement and wonder in his face.  
  
Csevet shut his eyes, though it made no difference.


End file.
